


Everything's For Sale

by Skalidra



Series: DC Mirror!verse [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Anal Sex, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Masochism, Mirror Universe, Power Imbalance, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Tim's finally made captain, thanks to all his long-running plans. It's a small ship, but the rank opens the door to new possibilities, and a chance at getting hold of a not-so-small ship to call his own, so he can finally prove himself to the command. However, getting hold of a bigger ship will require an admiral's support, which can be tricky to get. Luckily, Tim already knows the very best admiral around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I've got another piece of Mirror!verse for you today (Star Trek, not Earth-3). This one's from further in the timeline, once they're off the Titan and Tim's gained control of the ship they were on. It's also mostly from Bruce's PoV (I swear eventually I'l write something with just the two of them). There's a second, much smaller part to this that's aftermath, which will go up on Friday. Enjoy!

Bruce prides himself on keeping a close eye on the prospective new talent coming out of the Academy. His peers have never fully understood, and he keeps it a careful secret exactly how useful it is, but he knows that's where much of his power comes from. If you can find someone with talent, with the potential to be great, and sink your fingers into them before they fully understand why they'd want to avoid that, you have them forever. You can make them loyal, make them _owe_ you that allegiance, and build yourself weapons from the ground up.

Dick wasn't the first, but he was the most successful. He cares more than he should about his favorite captain, and he knows that most of the other admirals think that he's crazy for allowing someone of Dick's reputation anywhere near him. But they simply don't know what he does. Dick is his, utterly, and would never turn on him. If he was going to, there have been a thousand perfect chances. Times that he's awoken with Dick already watching him, fingers warm against his throat and yet not taking the opportunity to squeeze down.

Neither of them are ever more than a foot away from some sort of blade; if Dick wanted his position he could have taken it any one of those thousand times. But Dick belongs to him, and he, in turn, belongs to Dick. It's a deeper connection than he'll ever admit to anyone, because if anyone were to hear him say _love_ , Dick's life would be forfeit the moment someone could get a shot at him. He's made a lot of enemies, and accumulated a lot of favors, during his rise to power. Many would like to be rid of him, and to take his place as the favored admiral of the Empire.

But armies aren't built around single men, and he can always use more talented, loyal people to add to his ranks. Drake and Todd are two such people; he's been watching them since he first caught sight of them in the Academy.

Dick met them first, on his instruction, and that confirmed his interest. Watching them survive a year on the Titan solidified it. They've climbed their way to power since then, playing to their strengths and clawing up the ranks bit by bit. Todd took the brunt of the attention that resulted, and he kept a careful ear on the discussion of the 'young, strong man and his pretty pet.' Listened, and hid his smirk behind a glass.

Drake is, as Dick described to him, a _viper_. Beautiful to look at, but deadly in every way that matters. He may have been hiding in Todd's shadow, letting everyone else assume that Todd was the power between them, but it's simply not true. Perhaps, if Dick hadn't found out the truth of it, Bruce might have been fooled too. But he doesn't think so; Drake is all too much like Dick for him to be fooled by good looks and a charming smile.

He was proven exactly correct when Drake suddenly, viciously, eliminated the captain of his ship and took the position himself. Captain, with Todd as his first officer. It's a small ship, certainly nothing of note, but the position is still an important step. It opens the door for a captaincy in another ship; a better one. But to get that, Drake needs the support of someone who can make such assignments; an admiral. How convenient. (And he knows Drake is far from blind enough to have missed that he was responsible for the initial assignment to the Titan; the boy's already in his grasp, even if he doesn't know it yet.)

Now comes the negotiation. What he'll receive in return for his support, and what Drake is willing to sacrifice in exchange for power. He suspects the answer is very close to 'nothing.' All he has to do is prove, to both of them, that he holds the power in their arrangement. After that, he can work on true loyalty. He doubts he'll ever trust one of them enough to let them near him while he sleeps, but he can at least obtain enough loyalty to keep them beneath him as long as he holds power. That's good enough; he doesn't ever intend to lose that power.

A simple invitation brings Drake's ship to where his is currently docked; he has other business on the planet, but it also happens to be close enough to where Drake's new ship is that a call from an admiral is more than enough to divert him off course for a couple days. It's not an important assignment; it can more than afford to be put aside for long enough that Drake can meet with him.

He sets his work aside when the new captain arrives, so that he can watch his progress through the security feeds of his ship. Todd is at his shoulder, of course.

He's momentarily caught off guard by the fact that Drake is wearing the top half of what appears to be a female uniform; a sleeveless, midriff-baring top that, unlike a male captain's standard uniform, bares the skin of his neck as well. A neck bare of any claiming mark, so perhaps it's a silent declaration of his independence and the fact that he is the one in power, and not Todd. The uniform-bottoms are standard enough; tight against his legs and backside and leading down to slightly heeled boots. An attempt to gain a bit of height, or another way to distract and entice those he needs to? Hard to say.

It's only a few minutes before Drake is nearing his office, and he decides that it's a good thing that he decided to watch the initial progress; being distracted by Drake's appearance, however momentarily, would have lost him a small bit of respect. With a serpent like Drake, every bit of respect is a precious thing. (At least until he's properly put in his place.)

His door chimes, and he turns off the security feeds, makes sure his screens are free of any compromising information, and calls, "Enter!"

The door opens, and Drake steps in, flanked by one of his security officers now instead of Todd. He leans back in his chair, flicks a hand to dismiss the officer, and is left with Drake standing a dozen feet away, hands eased behind his back in what might be a grab at a weapon just as easily as a proper at-rest stance. Either way, it puts the plane of his stomach on display.

"Admiral Wayne," Drake greets, gaze dipping in utterly feigned obedience, his eyelashes fluttering over pale blue eyes.

It's a calculated play, he's not blind to that, but that doesn't mean that it's entirely ineffectual. Drake, after all, is a very pretty boy. Not the equal of Dick, as far as he's concerned, but he recognizes his own bias in that regard. He's realized, over the years and as people caught his eye, that he may have a fairly obvious preference for blue eyes and black hair. And very, very deadly boys.

"Drake," he offers in response, with a small curl of his lips. "I've heard a lot about you from my boy."

Drake doesn't ask for clarification; good. His ownership of 'Captain Grayson' is hardly a secret to anyone who knows enough to look it up, but it's not entirely common knowledge either. Everyone knows that Dick was his boy through the Academy, and remained his throughout the time as his first officer, but there are some who think that he declared independence upon becoming a captain. It's good to confirm that Drake is smarter than that; it would be a shame if the talk about him was only talk.

"Good things, I hope." Drake pairs the obvious answer with a sweet smile, hips sliding to be cocked to one side as he gives a small flicker of his gaze, up to meet Bruce's eyes and then back down again. "Maybe I can confirm some of those things for you, Admiral."

He ignores the invitation, though he does let his gaze dip to pass momentarily over the exposed, flat plane of Tim's stomach. "You seem to be absent your shadow today," he points out, wasting time as he withholds any offer to sit, or get comfortable. "Where _is_ your dog, Drake?" If Drake is unsettled by the lack of courtesy, or by the lack of his usual large, threatening first officer at his back, he doesn't show it.

"Outside," is the smooth answer, as Drake eases forward, approaching his desk. "You invited _me_ , after all. But if you want an audience—” a subtle tilt of Drake's head, letting his hair fall slightly more to the side, baring part of his throat "—or a _show_ , I can call him in, Admiral. He'll give whatever I command." Drake slips around the edge of his desk, fingertips trailing along the corners of it. "But I find that most people like to… _'talk'_ alone; at least at first."

"Is that right?" he digs, turning his chair to face Drake but keeping his legs crossed; tacit refusal instead of an invitation. "And how many people have you _'talked'_ to, Captain?"

There's not even a twitch of reaction to his pointed question. No shame; also good. "Exactly enough to get me where I am," Drake responds, now standing in front of him. He recognizes the slight angle, the faint arch of a back to showcase everything important, as Dick's stance. Stolen or invented separately, hard to say. "I've never met an _admiral_ before; not _personally_." One step forward, a hand sliding along the top few inches of one thigh to draw his attention there. "What can I _do_ for you, sir?"

He considers, recalculating his plans now that Drake has more voluntarily shed his nearly ever-present guard. There are many ways, after all, to unbalance the fresh captain. It wouldn't be that hard to prove his own power and deny Drake the comfort of a familiar battleground; the question only lies in exactly how he wants to do that. He had a plan, and he intends to stick to the end result, but maybe he'll detour on getting there. After all, he's not particularly in the mood for violence, so he'll keep his hands more or less to himself for right now. At least until he's made his point.

So, step one.

"Strip," he orders, keeping his voice cool and studying the reaction to it.

Ease, the flirt of a smile, and a murmured, "As you wish, Admiral Wayne."

The fact that it's a game — and he has no intention of taking what Drake is offering or doing what Drake thinks he will — doesn't mean that he makes himself look away as Drake artfully eases his uniform off one piece at a time. He still lets himself enjoy the slow reveal of paler, smooth skin and the flat muscle beneath it, absent of any immediately obvious scars. No surprise there; Drake uses his looks to get what he wants, most times. Keeping free of scars would be an important task, and in this scenario, an easy one. After all, anyone who's paying the right amount of attention can see the deal that Drake and Todd have struck.

Drake uses all those pretty looks to his advantage. Flutters his eyelashes and lets himself be used by anyone he needs something from, or anyone he needs to get to drop their guard long enough to put a knife in their throat. Todd plays the part he looks like. Intimidating and brutish; there to take the hits when necessary and scare any would-be takers away from his smaller partner. On command, of course.

Anyone who still believes that Drake rode Todd to power is unquestionably an idiot. It's clearly the other way around.

When the pair of briefs slips to the ground, leaving Drake bare before him apart from the flush that paints his cheeks, he lets himself spend a long few moments simply admiring the smooth lines of the boy. Smaller than perhaps any other captain he knows of, but size doesn't mean power. What is power is how Drake turns without prompting, arms rising as he pivots in a slow circle, showing off the curve of his back and all the rest of that pale skin. A lesser man would already be pawing at him, and Drake knows it. (It's not power how others think of it, but it _is_ power.)

Drake smiles, arms sliding down again as he comes fully around. "What else do you want, Admiral?"

He tilts his head slightly towards the other side of his desk, to the chair there, and orders, "Sit."

Drake's hesitation is only momentary, and visible only because he's specifically looking for it. Anyone else would probably have missed that slight confusion before Drake dips his gaze and heads back around the desk, hand trailing over the edge and hips swaying slightly more than is normal with every step. He watches Drake settle into the chair, straight and proper, except for the little part of his lips and the way his bangs fall slightly in front of his eyes in an enticing curtain that does almost nothing to hide Drake's eyes.

He leaves his chair turned partially to the side, a silent declaration that he doesn't need to devote his full attention to Drake's attempt at games. "Let's talk business, Captain," he offers, with a cool smile.

He can nearly see the gears spinning in Drake's head, calculating out how to get him to take what's being offered, to allow himself to be distracted by skin and pleasure so Drake can get what he wants. It comes out as, "Whatever you want, sir. I can sit on your desk if you prefer, Admiral; I'm sure there are better views than this one. I don't mind a little discomfort."

"You can stop that." Drake blinks, slightly more clearly startled, and he keeps his cool smile. "Captain Grayson is mine, remember? You've certainly improved, but you're not as good at this as he is yet. If I choose to taste what you're offering, it will be because it suits me, not because you're trying to seduce me. Now sit up straight, be professional, and let's discuss terms. There _are_ other ways to get what you want than sucking cock for it, Drake."

His words have brought a small flush to Drake's cheeks; embarrassment or anger, he isn't sure. Either way, Drake gives a much sharper smile and crosses one leg over the other, hands clasping over his knee. "Business then. What do you want to discuss, Admiral?"

Not the best showing, but not the worst either. It's good enough for now.

"What's your next step, Drake?" he asks, plainly enough. "Now that you've reached the rank of captain, that is. Hiding in your dog's shadow won't be enough anymore."

Drake studies him for a moment, intelligence laid viciously bare in his blue eyes. "To take command of a better ship," is the simple answer. "Being a captain opens a lot of doors, but I'd like to be more than some backwater captain trapped on a substandard ship, far from anything important or any chance of proving myself worth more. I can't imagine it will take me long."

He taps his fingers against the desk, tilting his head. "Perhaps. Cross-ship promotions are rare; it can be very difficult to supplant existing command with officers that the crew doesn't know. Most cross-ship appointments of higher rank are killed within a few weeks of their assignment; the success rate is very low, apart from the assignment of very well known captains." Drake's confidence is a little bit shaken, he can see it in the muscle of his shoulders, and he holds those pale blue eyes as he adds, "Grayson occasionally takes temporary command of other ships, when the need arises. Even he faces more assassination attempts than usual when he does, as do the higher-ranking members of his own crew. Do you think you can beat those odds, Drake?"

"You sound like you have a secondary option," Drake says, instead of answering his question directly.

He smiles. "Assignment to a newly built ship is a surer bet; taking your crew and officers with you. Of course, you'd need the support of a very powerful admiral to guarantee that you would get priority, especially given your lack of achievements and the competition over such spots."

He can see the dots connect in Drake's head, and that black-haired head tilts to the side as he's studied, eyes slightly narrowed. "And what could I do to earn your support, Admiral Wayne? I can be very pleasing when I have motivation to be; you can ask Captain Grayson."

"I'm sure you can," he grants, before he turns himself forward to the desk, mirroring the crossed legs and clasped hands of the boy across from him. "If I give you support, you'll belong to me. Not physically, you wouldn't be my boy any more than you were anyone else's, but support is a public thing. I will be declaring that I have interest in your success, so you will be mine from that point onwards. My name will always be attached to yours, and your achievements will be viewed as my successes as well as yours. Can you handle being owned, or are we done, Drake?"

Drake is silent for a few moments, but holds his gaze squarely when he answers, "Almost everyone is owned by someone else. True independence is a myth; a dangerous one. If I'm going to owe my allegiance to someone, I want it to be to the best. From what I know, you're the best, sir. I can handle it. What are the terms of your support?"

He believes it. Or at the least, he believes that _Drake_ believes it.

"Simple enough. You'll be indirectly under my command. You'll do and give what I want, and in exchange you'll have the protection of being known as belonging to me, a new ship, and any favors you may need down the line. Whatever I ask for, I expect to get; there won't be any room for negotiations." Drake seems fine with that, so he goes directly for the kill and adds, "What I give can just as easily be stripped away, Captain, and you can be replaced by someone new if you step out of line. Do you understand?"

Drake's voice is steady when he answers, "Yes, Admiral."

"Good. Do we have a deal then? My support, for your obedience?"

There's no hesitation. Drake simply repeats, "Yes, Admiral." Holding his eyes and without a trace of doubt in his expression.

He gives a small nod after he's certain, and then lets his hands come apart, his arms resting on the actual arms of his chair instead. "Retrieve your dog, Drake. Bring him in here."

"As you wish, sir." Drake stands, heading for the door with no apparent care for his nudity or the fact that his security officers are still outside. Smart; he never gave permission for him to redress, and asking would imply discomfort. This is a safer option, certainly, and wearing the exposure with confidence is the best way to make sure no one else thinks of trying to take advantage of it. The door opens at the touch of Drake's hand to the panel, and he calls, "Commander; here."

He wonders, idly, if the phrasing is intended to cater specifically to him. Todd _is_ Drake's dog, in all ways that matter, but he doesn't know if that extends to how Drake orders him around. If it is catering to him, it's a good play. It's amusing.

Todd appears in the doorway a moment later, and Drake closes the door behind him. "Admiral," Todd offers, with a dip of his head. His gaze isn't lingering on Drake, despite the nudity. Whether it's familiarity or respect is another hard distinction for now. Beside Todd, Drake looks even smaller; it's an alluring emphasis, but not one he's going to fall for.

"You can get dressed, Drake," he says, carelessly. He watches Todd's expression as he does it, reading the flicker of that gaze sideways, and the question in it that's only partially concealed. Wondering what happened, undoubtedly. After all, nudity usually implies something sexual, but nothing about the rest of them would back up a thought like that. No mussed hair, no flushes, no smell in the air. He doubts that it crossed either of their minds that he only ordered Drake to strip down to make absolutely sure he wasn't carrying any weapons. Vipers generally have fangs, after all.

Todd stays across the room as Drake bows his head and then approaches, gathering his clothes from the floor. The way he puts them on is no less enticing than how he removed them, although it's done faster. Drake's smart enough not to try and flirt with him, at least not in any obvious way. His movements can be excused away as habit.

"You understand," he begins, once Drake has slipped on both boots and is straightening up, "that I'll need some proof that you're willing to go the lengths I might require."

Drake's hands clasp behind his back, no hint that he may back down in either his expression or the way that he says, "Name it, Admiral."

And finally, the point that he'd originally planned. A way to prove to them both that the power in this exchange rests with him, and to ensure that Drake realizes exactly how much he knows, as well as what he can do with that information. Just a simple thing, in the rules of their world.

He keeps himself angled so that he can see them both when he says, "Order Todd to fuck me."

Todd's head _snaps_ up, eyes widening and then snapping to Drake, who's still and just a little stiff. Yes, he's certainly hit the nail on the head with this one.

"Sir?" Drake asks, voice quiet. He leans into his chair a bit more heavily.

"You told me that Todd would give whatever you commanded, Captain," he murmurs, as reminder. "Order him to give himself. Tell your dog he's mine for the night, and to come over here and get down on his knees for me. I think it would be a good change of pace, considering that you're always the one in that position. Is that clear enough, Drake?"

Drake gives a smile as cool as his previous ones, and then a sharp, "Jason, _here_."

Todd is slow in starting, a little halting, but he comes over. His gaze is lowered, shoulders stiff, but he comes to stand beside Drake and wait for instruction, hands hanging at his sides. Drake lifts a hand, grazing his knuckles across Todd's cheek and then down to his throat. Todd gives an upwards glance of blue eyes that looks somewhere between desperate and bracing. Whatever their deal is, he imagines that Todd knows most of Drake's plans. _Must_ know how necessary it is to have an admiral's support.

"Pet," Tim says, voice firm but quiet, "give the admiral anything he wants. Until tomorrow, you're his. Understand?"

Todd hesitates in all the ways that Drake doesn't, but murmurs a, "Yes, Captain." A flick of Drake's chin in his direction, hand pulling away, and Todd moves towards him. It's reluctant, but Todd drops down in front of him on both knees, to the side of his legs and within easy reach if he wanted to reach out and touch. Which he does.

He lifts that same-side hand and rests it in Todd's hair, carding his fingers through the short black strands. Exactly enough to grip and pull; he imagines that part is purposeful on Drake's part. After all, he knows a fair bit about Todd's preferences, thanks to Dick and a bit of guessing of his own based on records. Officers don't take as many physical punishments as Todd has without having intense pain thresholds, or enjoying it on some level. The reports from the Academy's disciplinary squads tell him that the latter is definitely the correct option.

Todd twitches but doesn't pull away, though his head stays lowered and his shoulders are tense. Reluctant, unhappy, but obedient.

"You can go, Drake," he grants. "I'll return him to you in the morning, when I'm done with him."

"Understood, sir." Drake pauses, shifting as if he's about to say something, and then turns to leave without a word.

He watches as Drake leaves, not glancing back, not offering anything to the man now kneeling at his feet. When the door shuts, he lets his fingers leave Todd's hair, and reaches forward to his desk to hit the controls and lock the door. No interruptions; his officers have already been briefed not to disturb him unless necessary. He intends to enjoy every moment of this that he can. After all, he doubts that Drake would be willing to let him do this again, not unless it was the only option. Drake is very protective of his dog, even if no one else has recognized that yet.

He stands then, with a last parting brush of his fingers through Todd's hair. "Come with me," he orders.

He doesn't wait to see if Todd follows him in the direction of his room; the boy has no choice but to. Besides, he can hear the footsteps behind him; softer against the short carpet than they would be otherwise, but with no attempt to silence them. Todd is large enough that stealth was never something that he would want to attempt to specialize in, and it's a rare specialization anyway. Usually only the spies are trained in anything more than basic stealth, and that's a very specialized field. (Starfleet chooses those candidates carefully; by hand.)

The secondary door to his bedroom opens easily, and by the delay in it closing again he's certain that Jason is just behind him. He snaps his fingers, points to the floor at the side of the bed as he walks towards it. He turns to sit on the edge of the bed, to watch the last few steps before Todd sinks down before him, kneeling at his feet once more. When Todd goes to lower his head, he reaches forward and takes his chin instead, forcing those blue eyes up to his.

"Are you going to be this silent all night?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Todd watches him, still under his touch, and then says, "People like you don't tend to like it when I talk, Admiral."

"People like me?"

Todd shifts then, expression growing just slightly more guarded and tense. "People that have bought me."

He slides his fingers up, across Todd's cheek and just into his hair. "Yes, you're from Gotham's slums, aren't you? Taken in by one of its many pimps, then sold to the Academy when you got too old and too big to turn a profit anymore." Todd doesn't flinch from the proof that he knows his past, and he tugs lightly at the hair between his fingers as he gives a small smile. "Keep the direct insubordination to a minimum, but feel free to speak, Todd. And I expect you to use those skills you were taught; lack of interest is no excuse with a past like yours."

Todd's teeth grit, anger flashing hot for a moment, before his gaze jerks away. "Yes, sir." Teeth grind, and then Todd looks him in the eye and asks, "Do you want me to fake interest, sir? I haven't in a long time, but I probably still can."

"I don't need enthusiasm," he allows. "I expect obedience, and I expect presence. Don't go drifting off inside of your own mind, don't disobey me, and I won't have to remind you of your place. Do you understand the rules, Todd?"

A shallow nod. "Yes, sir. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

He strokes down the side of Todd's face, to flick his chin up a little bit. "Stand and step back." Todd obeys, and he gets up after him. He's a couple inches taller, he's bulkier, and he can see the way that Todd looks at him and swallows. Unused to anyone being bigger than him, clearly.

Todd is silent and still as he reaches in, pulling the zipper down his uniform top and easing it apart to rest high on his shoulders. Todd's form is pleasing; muscle and a minimum of scarring, but he's not surprised by that. He steps around, pulling the shirt down by hooking two fingers over it at the back of his neck and then pulling it down, letting his fingertips slide down the length of Todd's spine in the process. It's a slow journey, and he studies the skin that's revealed as he does it. There are disciplinary marks along his back; long whip marks overlapping one another that show that Todd's been under the hands of Security personnel quite a few times. He imagines some of them have been erased, and not all marks caused by a disciplinary officer's whip scar, which makes the story even plainer to see.

"Impressive pain tolerance," he remarks, as the uniform top falls to the ground. He lets his fingers trace the length of one long strip of raised skin, and then a second, somewhat diagonal one. "I hear from my boy that you enjoy the pain."

Todd shifts beneath his fingers, head held straight. "Some pain," is the quiet, uncomfortable response. "In some ways."

"Sadism isn't a favorite game of mine," he admits, letting his fingers linger at the small of Todd's back for a moment, "but I'll keep that in mind."

He's in the middle of looping back around when Todd says, "It's the power then." He's far enough forward to meet the narrowed heat of Todd's eyes, and for his question to be clear enough in his gaze that Todd expands, "You knew _exactly_ what you were doing, asking Ti— my captain to sell me to you for a night. If it wasn't sadism, then it's a power play, and you could have done that a hundred ways that wouldn't skirt the line of turning him against you. You're not the first person I've met that got off on power, _sir_."

"You think Drake cares enough about you to make _this_ the worst thing I could ask of him?"

"No," is the flat, blunt answer. "Not the worst thing, but you already know the answer to what you're asking, sir. I don't think you got to be the most powerful admiral in the fleet without knowing far more than anyone suspects, and I don't think you'd make a deal with my captain without knowing as much as possible about him first." Blue eyes hold his for a moment, before pointing out, " _You_ said that you needed proof that he would 'go the lengths you might require.' If you didn't think this was something he really didn't want to do, you wouldn't have asked for it. It wouldn't have been a test."

He tilts his head, studying how Todd is looking at him. Relaxed into the back and forth, clearly. "You really are quite clever underneath that exterior brutishness, aren't you?"

"You knew that too, sir; can't imagine you haven't looked at my test scores by now." A small shrug, and then a lifted chin. "I didn't sell myself for any of that, sir. Instructors thought I had a shit attitude, but I was good enough it didn't matter. Took a few beatings and got through just fine on my own."

He smiles, and then comments, "You're very chatty suddenly, Todd. From single, short sentences to volunteered information." Todd doesn't pull away from the slide of his fingers, cupping his jaw, or how he leans in on the other side, brushing lips across Todd's ear before he murmurs, "Are you stalling me, Commander?"

Todd shivers — at the proximity or his words he's not sure — but keeps still, voice equally quiet as he responds. "Impressed? Or pissed off?"

"Amused," he settles on. "If I was irritated, you would be in pain you wouldn't enjoy, Todd. Keep talking if you want, but go lie down on the bed and on your back first." He steps aside, letting go to allow Todd to follow his command. "So, what would you do for these power-hungry customers?"

Todd falls onto the bed, rolling to his back and looking up as his fingers curl into the sheets. "Most wanted to be addressed by some sort of title, _sir_. Other than that, it varied. There are lots of different kinds of power, and lots of different types of power games. Everyone likes something different, especially your type." A slow breath, as he gets on the bed himself, his hand coming forward to toy at the hem of Todd's uniform slacks. "Always wanted things _just_ their way."

He lets his fingers trace circular patterns along the sensitive skin of Todd's navel, drawing a small inhalation and a cant of Todd's hips slightly upwards. He obliges it, lowering his hand to undo the zipper there, and then to slide his hand within and cup the bulge outlined against the dark boxers. Small, for now, but that will change. Todd will beg him before the night is done, and give him everything he has to give. He's taken the same from Dick, when time allows for it. That's _his_ game.

He leaves the slacks undone but withdraws his hand, sliding it up Todd's chest to rub the pad of his thumb over a nipple. It hardens beneath his touch, like other things will given enough time. More pleasing is the way Todd's jaw shifts, lips just barely parting in a soft exhale. Experienced in pleasure, some would even say trained to it, but still vulnerable to a skilled touch. Is he out of practice, or did he never grow dull to sensation like so many others? Natural talent, perhaps. Or perhaps conditioning on the part of his previous master; a well trained boy earns more than a raw one after all, and a responsive boy earns much more than that.

“Sounds familiar, I admit..” He scrapes a nail across the nipple, relatively lightly, and catches the little hitch of breath the touch gives him as reward. (Perhaps, his mind adds on, Todd is simply sensitive here.)

Todd is staring straight upwards, towards the ceiling, but his expression doesn’t read as disconnect. Just an unwillingness to look his tormentor in the eye, he supposes. Or maybe an unwillingness to watch; he’ll break that down later if it is actually a wall. He intends to reduce every wall Todd has to rubble by the end of the night, and sweep his legs right out from under him. Not to _hurt_ him, but simply to prove that he can, and if he wants to, he will.

He lets his mind wander a bit along those paths of thought, wondering if Todd has ever been taken apart with pleasure before as he lets his fingers continue to play with the sensitive skin beneath them. Most prefer the blunt cruelty of a whip, or any other sort of simple, admittedly effective, pain when they try to destroy someone. But for the ones used to pain, for the ones who _enjoy_ it, sometimes the best way to break them is to give them what they’re not used to. A relatively gentle touch, and _ecstasy_. Enjoying what you’re not supposed to (in a way that has nothing to do with masochism and everything to do with shame), is an excellent way to worm beneath the skin of those that wouldn’t flinch from the skin just being stripped away.

"Tell me about your relationship with Drake," he orders, and _that_ gets a flinch.

Todd's gaze falls to him, hands briefly tightening where they're curled in the sheets. "What do you want to know?" is the guarded answer. A decent one, though perhaps not the best way to avoid his questions. Todd was clearly never meant for a more political battlefield, which he supposes was the point of the alliance with Drake.

He pinches the nipple, lightly, drawing a sharp inhalation and a small bit of squirming. "We'll start simple," he grants. "What is he to you?"

"My captain," is the instant response, through somewhat gritted teeth. "My leader; always was."

"And?" he prompts, when Todd doesn't expand on it by himself.

A small glare, before that gaze rises back up to the ceiling. "And my owner, is that what you want to hear? I'm his; you knew that already."

"Is he yours?" he asks next, sliding his hand up to lightly cup Todd's throat for a moment,.

He doesn't get an answer until his fingers have slipped up to trace the shell of one ear. Then Todd answers, guarded but not quite hesitant, "When he wants to be."

"Is that right?" His fingers finish tracing the edge of Todd's ear, and he lets them fall away. "And how was it," he asks as he stands, "to play at owning him for all of that time? Everyone thinking that you had such a pretty little thing sitting at your feet?" Keying in the code to his bedside drawer comes easy, and he bypasses the phaser and the long knife within to retrieve the small bottle of lube instead.

"Painful, mostly," comes the answer. "People are jealous fucks about pretty things they don't own."

"Very true. Take the rest of your clothes off," he orders, as he crosses back over and sits down.

He waits and watches as Todd obeys, admiring the clench of muscle in his abdomen as he curls partially up to get hands far enough down that he can get first one shoe off, then the other. The pants are next, and the boxers the last bit, shed without shame. Todd's just barely swollen, but that will change with a bit of time. He takes his time looking at the revealed skin, from the muscle of his calves and thighs to the dark thatch of hair surrounding his mostly-limp cock. Todd's certainly not _pretty,_ but he has his own very attractive appeal, not the least of which is his reluctance to allow himself to be used. Obedient though, which is good.

The lube he sets down in the center of Todd's chest, before he offers a smile and a calm, "Work yourself open."

There's no hint of embarrassment in the way that Todd picks the lube up, coating the fingers of his right — far — hand with the slick substance before easily capping and setting the bottle aside. Practiced, clearly. Todd's thighs part, and without being told he lifts himself up into a slight arch, just far enough that the slick hand can slides beneath him and reach things that way. He shifts slightly down on the bed so that he can lean in and watch how those fingers first circle and then slide in. One, at first, but quickly followed by a second. A second that makes Todd give a small grimace, though there's no sound to accompany it, and the fingers don't stop.

"Easy," he murmurs, lifting a hand to lower it down between Todd's legs and cup that invading hand, pushing it flat against his body. "Slow down, Commander. There's no rush, is there?"

It's plain to see in Todd's hesitance that he _wants_ it to be rushed, but Bruce ignores that. "No, sir."

"Good boy," he murmurs, and the flush of anger (and this time he gets embarrassment too) is everything he expected. "So go slowly." He guides those fingers with his own, fucking him by proxy and commanding, "Just one for now. In as deep as possible, and out again. I'll tell you when to add more."

There's no answer, but Todd stays moving to the rhythm he's set, gaze up on the ceiling again, breath not as steady as it was.

"Drake's never sold you before, has he?"

Todd's gaze snaps down to him, body tightening for a moment, before there's a rough snort and it mostly relaxes once again. "Most people aren't interested in fucking _me_ once they've seen him. Everybody knows I'm just the _dog,_ right?"

He tilts his head, lifting a hand to trail gentle fingers down the center of Todd's chest, until he can tease the more sensitive skin of his navel, and just below. "Does that bother you, Todd? Being disregarded as a brute? A lackey?"

"No," is the firm answer; Todd's holding his gaze. "I never wanted to lead, and I've got no problem with stupid bastards underestimating me. Sir."

He smiles. "Careful, Commander. My support hinges on your good behavior, remember?" There's a flicker of uncertainty, of fear, and he chuckles. "I _could_ find a way to hurt you that you wouldn't enjoy, but that's a much more effective threat, don't you think? After all, Drake is relying on you, isn't he?" He slides his fingers lower, wrapping them around the limp weight of Todd's cock and slowly stroking it as he adds, "You wouldn't want to have to tell your master that you cost him the benefit of my support, would you, mutt?"

Todd shudders, eyes squeezing closed for a moment before there's a tense, "No, sir. I— I'm sorry, sir."

"You can pay for it later," he comments, keeping his voice careless so that when those blue eyes look up at him he can simply smile and lightly squeeze at the flesh between his fingers. It gets him a small gasp, quickly strangled. "The viper and his mutt… It has a decent ring to it. Maybe I'll make sure that's what you're called, when the both of you are known as mine." That makes Todd bristle for a moment, teeth flashing, but before he can begin to comment on it the aggression is being shut away. He lets the smile curl a bit wider. "You bridle at being owned much more than Drake does; maybe he doesn't keep your leash tight enough."

Todd's answer is low, growled. "He doesn't need to, sir." Of course, it's somewhat undermined by how his cheeks are starting to flush, and how the cock in his hand is definitely halfway to being fully hard.

He give a few more slow, unhurried strokes, waits till Todd shifts a bit and gives a somewhat shaky exhalation, and then murmurs, "No, he doesn't, does he? You're far too loyal for him to need to keep you in line; that's why he's let you come this far with him. Well, part of the reason." He leans in, lets his other hand come up and trace the curve of Todd's jaw. "He's a little more _yours_ than he'd like to admit, isn't he?" he asks, keeping his voice low and hushed, like a secret whispered to a friend.

"My captain belongs to exactly who he wants to and no one else," Todd says, voice restrained to something tight instead of (probably) anger.

It's also not _quite_ a denial.

"I didn't say that he didn't want to," he points out, with a firmer squeeze that draws a small groan. "If he didn't, then this wouldn't be hard for him, would it? Add a second finger."

It takes Todd a moment to react to the order, and he pulls back so he can watch the second one go in, smooth and slick and getting a soft moan for the sensation. "He—” Todd has to swallow, to breathe for a moment before he can get out, "He doesn't like to share his pets, that's all."

His instinctive reaction is to _squeeze,_ to hurt the boy until he gets a begged plea to stop, but he pushes it back down. He doesn't know precisely how much or what kind of a masochist Todd is, and he won't risk confusing punishment with reward until he is. Instead, he lets his smile fall, lets his expression go cool. Todd goes still, caught between his focus and the firm grip of his hand. "Don't lie to me, mutt. You're not good enough at it to get away with it. Do it again, and I'll send you back to your captain with my name burned into your back, are we clear?"

Todd shudders, swallows _hard_ , and then gives a shallow nod. "Yes, sir."

The reference was intentional, but it's still good to see that Todd remembers his lesson at Dick's hands. That's one punishment that he knows for certain Todd won't enjoy, which is an advantage. Otherwise, he'd have had to get quite creative to find something intense enough to make an impression. Intense, or brutal.

"Good," is his flat answer. "Watch your step, Todd; you're on thin ice now."

Todd trembles slightly, but offers, "Understood, Admiral. Sorry, sir."

"At least you learn," he comments. "You can add a third finger, when you can do it without pain. Don't rush it."

There's no answer to that, but he didn't ask a direct question so he decides to allow it. He keeps his attention on Todd's expression and reactions, allowing the silence to weight the air between them as he lets his free hand explore the skin laid bare for him. He was mostly done with questions anyway, at least for now. He can come back to that later.

The addition of the third finger is marked with Todd's back arching a little bit, teeth gritting around a strangled moan, and though his expression is tight Bruce reads it as reluctant pleasure instead of pain, which is acceptable. He lets go of Todd's cock, drawing his hand away from the hard erection there; proportionate, maybe even slightly larger than he is fully erect, not that it matters. Power like this doesn't lie in physical superiority, and Todd knows that. The fact that he does happen to be taller and stronger is only a bonus.

"Roll over onto your knees," he commands, with a parting pass of his fingers over Todd's navel. He stands as Todd obeys.

One hand is braced on the bed, holding him up, while the other stretches back over the long length of his back to reach between his legs. It almost follows the line of one of the whip marks carved across his back, but the angle isn't quite right down near the bottom, and his arm obscures the lower few inches of it. His head is held low, not quite hanging but certainly trying to unobtrusively hide behind his braced arm. He notices, but doesn't demand that it be changed. Todd can have his privacy for now; he'll rip it away later along with everything else.

He moves to the bottom of the bed, undoing his uniform just enough that he can free himself, palming his cock as he considers if he wants to climb onto the bed and press Todd into it.

No, better to keep the power disparity clear for now. Make the boy remember his roots before Bruce works on taking him apart.

"Move backwards, to the edge of the bed," is his order, once he's decided that. Todd, clever dog, doesn't remove or stop the movement of his fingers as he crawls backwards, gait made only slightly awkward by the lack of a second hand to work with. Still, better that than to disobey his commands. He extends a hand to brush Todd's ass and halt him before he edges entirely off the bed. "Do you think you're ready?" he asks, as he watches the thrust and curl of those three clearly talented fingers.

A minor tremble, hesitation, and then Todd carefully replies, "I don't know, Admiral. I don't know how big you are, or how well you want me prepared."

Clever, and honest. Perhaps Drake's dog really is a fast learner.

"Stretch yourself open," he murmurs, firming his grip so he can pull Todd's cheek aside and bare him more thoroughly to his gaze. "Let me see."

Todd exhales harsh enough that he can hear it, but the fingers he has buried pull apart, stretching the circle of muscle open and allowing him a tantalizing glimpse within. It probably is enough, with enough lube and care, but he has other plans for this hole tonight, and leaving it sore would cut those short. This is one area he doesn't intend to cause any pain. He lets his thumb rub into the skin beneath it before dipping down, tracing the edge of the stretched hole (contracting, just barely and somewhat rhythmically) around the fingers holding it open.

He gets a small shiver, as he teases the possibility of dipping his thumb in, before he withdraws and pulls his hand away entirely. "I think a couple minutes more. I'm sure there's plenty down here to amuse myself with until that time is up."

Todd lets himself relax, fingers still buried but no longer actively stretching. One deep breath, and they begin to move again, shifting and scissoring in a more gentle way, to ease open instead of demanding it. He considers the open spread of Todd's thighs, and all the sensitive skin framed by it. There are other things he can leave sore that won't have much of an impact on later activities, and they'll let him gauge exactly what kind of pain Todd enjoys, or at least start to.

He lifts his hand, trailing his fingers up the inside of one muscled thigh that twitches beneath his touch, before he curls his fingers around the hanging weight of Todd's balls. That gets him a sharp gasp, and an equally sharp flash of tension that's apparent mostly in the way that Todd's thighs tighten up for a brief moment. He smirks, rolling them in his hand and listening to the way Todd is breathing, watching the twitch of his back and the faint tremble of his legs. Then he squeezes.

Todd's back bows, breath coming out in a cry, braced hand curling into the sheets. He keeps his grip tight for a moment, not hard enough to do damage but enough to _hurt_ , certainly, and then eases it. Todd _bucks_ forward with a moan, and he has to restrain a laugh.

"Enjoy that, do you?" he asks, amusement plain enough in his tone. "How about a little longer this time?"

Todd is starting to squirm by the time he lets go, and when he does he gets a half-broken, breathy cry of a sound. Then another, louder one (blood rushing back, pins and needles and fresh _hurt_ ) and a backwards rock towards him that's certainly more automatic than anything else.

"You'll be sore afterwards," he informs Todd, as he tightens his fingers again. "You'll be able to feel it every time you press your legs together; a little reminder of the pain. Maybe you'll even get your master to do this to you later on; I'm sure he'd love to literally have you by the balls. I'm certainly enjoying it."

That gets him a hard shudder, a deep groan, and then he finally lets go. Todd arches, panting, faintly trembling, forehead nearly pressed to the bed in front of him from how far he's fallen forward. He admires the angle for a few moments, and the slick, slightly more frantic slide of Todd's fingers to go along with it. He's certainly succeeded in working Todd up, which means that the time has come to move on. He can always return to this later, if he wants to; it is making Todd give some _lovely_ noises.

He gives one more softer squeeze, just enough to make Todd jerk and shove out a breath, before he lets go entirely. "That's enough," he murmurs, sliding his hand down the back of Todd's thigh. "Pull them out, and hand me the bottle."

Todd's a bit shaky to obey, but he's not surprised. Those fingers slip free, and he admires the instinctive clench of muscle there, and the faint shine of the lubrication that's painting it. Todd has to stretch out to reach the bottle, and there are a dozen different temptations but he withholds his desire to do any of them. The bottle is handed back to him, Todd's gaze not quite meeting his, but his head is still turned more than enough to see how his cheeks are flushed and his lips slightly swollen. Probably from biting at them.

He easily slicks himself, edging his uniform slacks down just a bit further to give him more room to work with before he wraps his other hand around Todd's hip. There's a small shiver as Todd braces both hands against the bed, and he allows a moment of anticipation before he lines up and pushes forward. Todd gives beneath him, hot and welcoming as he sinks inside, and greeting him with a breathless moan. If it were Dick beneath him he would probably offer praise — or filth, depending on the mood — but Todd hasn't earned any of that yet.

Instead he seats himself, taking a shallow breath to maintain absolute control before he slides his hand up Todd's spine, until he can curl his fingers into that short black hair. Yes, _just_ long enough to grab. He pulls backwards, forcing Todd into an arch, head held back and his ass pressing back as well to try and minimize the pressure on his scalp. It'll be enough to burn a little, but by the small, strangled sounds Todd is making, that's an excellent amount.

He loosens it just a bit as he demands, "Fuck yourself on me." The sharp inhalation, the clench of muscle around him, curls his lips into a smile. "Go on. Work for what your master is buying, mutt."

He can see how Todd swallows, see how his hands curl into the sheets, but after a moment of tense hesitation his command is obeyed. Todd rocks forward, drawing the grip in his hair tight as he draws off, forcing his neck into a harder arch before he can push back again. It doesn't take Todd more than a couple tries to set up a rhythm, his back curving into a sharp arch to allow him the room to pull off, then easing back into a less-punishing curve as he drives himself back, as ordered.

It's a hell of a sight.

It's even better with the sounds Todd is making; hard, breathless groans and shoved exhalations, all somewhat strangled, and therefore real. Todd might be good enough to fake the noises themselves, but he doubts that he would fake the reluctance, and he _knows_ that the pleasure is real. He felt that with his own hands, after all. Caused it, and he's _very_ good at working people up who don't necessarily want to be. It's one of his favorite power plays, when the situation calls for it, and this one does.

Todd may not like being sold, but that wouldn't be enough to confirm power. No, getting into Todd's head will take more than that. It's a challenge he's more than up to the task of.

"You can do better than that, can't you?" he mocks, sliding the fingers of his free hand up Todd's side. "Drake must be easy to please."

That gets him a breathless snarl, but Todd rises to his bait, moving faster, harder, clenching down on him before every outward drag. Yes, now _those_ are the skills he expected from a trained whore, even one out of practice. Sex is good enough, but he expected to be impressed. At least somewhat. (Even though there are few that can manage to match Dick, especially with the familiarity they have with each other.) This is good enough for that; the curve of Todd's back is nice, especially with the whip marks adorning it.

He lets Todd work for a few minutes, enjoying his effort, before he digs his nails into Todd's side and rakes them down, leaving red lines in his wake and drawing a loud, surprised cry. Not a bad one though, so he does it again, this time to the side of his spine.

"Fuck!" is the shout, as Todd arches beneath his fingers, grinding back against him and pressing his head back into the hand in his hair.

"Now that's not bad," he offers, and finds a new spot to rake his nails across.

It disrupts Todd's rhythm, makes him jerk and arch instead of sticking to the push and pull, but the sounds and the raw desperation make up for it. The noises Todd makes, shouting and groaning and crying out underneath the cruelty, is more than enough for him to not miss the more steady rhythm. Especially not when Todd begins to shake, movement falling apart but his back arching into the touch, his breath harsh and uneven. He smiles, and drags Todd up against him by his hair.

Todd yelps at the harsh pull to his scalp, back arching as he pulls him up, pinning Todd's head back against his shoulder and sliding his free hand around the tense waist and stomach. He takes a moment to detour, to wrap his hand around the hot, hard weight of Todd's cock and give it a squeeze that verges on at least uncomfortable, earning himself a sound suspiciously like a whimper. He doubts he could ever get Todd to admit it, but he'll remember it.

Then he rolls his hips, taking over the job of fucking Todd now that he's pinned him. Todd's hands grab at his own thighs, digging into them instead of reaching back for him. What a well-trained dog. Almost enough to convince him that Drake doesn't actually care for his pet as much as he believes, if it weren't for the suspicion that these are old reflexes born from being sold in the streets, and not Drake's training. Whichever it is, they are pleasing.

"I was running out of room on your back," he comments, as he lets go of Todd's cock and lifts his hand to trace nails over that clenched stomach instead. "Still plenty up here though."

Todd's gasped, "Fuck. _Fuck,_ " is a special kind of music, and he buries his smirk and his teeth into the side of the arched neck. " _God!_ Admiral!"

He gives himself another half dozen seconds, and thrusts, before he pulls back enough to whisper, "If you want something specific, you'll have to ask for it, Commander. Nicely."

A shudder greets his words, but Todd also clenches down around him, back arching a little more and pushing his stomach into the press of his nails. " _More_ ," comes the gritted plea. "Please."

"More?" he echoes, with a particularly hard thrust and a small tug to the hair still coiled around his fingers. "You'll have to be a little more specific than _that_ , Todd. What do you want more of?"

Todd gives a frustrated sound, but breaks down to beg, " _Fuck_ , your nails, sir. Please. Please."

That's one that he can grant.

He drags his nails over Todd's stomach, a little softer this time to adjust for more sensitive skin, and Todd all but writhes for it. Masochists are _such_ fun; a shame that he can't keep Todd without alienating Drake. (Dick has some minor leanings that direction, enough to enjoy some light play and tolerate what he doesn't fully want, but it's nothing like this.) Not too big a shame though, because he doubts that Todd would ever behave for him without Drake's command. Not without being broken first, anyway.

Todd whimpers again, shivering as he slides his fingers down to the skin just above the jut of his cock. "Those are some lovely noises," he praises, as he teasingly scrapes his nails across the skin there. "Make another."

Actually raking his nails gets him a shout, not a whimper, but Todd _is_ apparently listening, because once he's managed to breathe again there does come another whimper, this one even more desperate than the last. The cause is easy enough to read, given how Todd is clenching around him and the way he's trembling, stomach drawn tight from more than just his scratching. So he lets himself progress the same path, following his own desire instead of catering to Todd's. He doesn't need to; the boy is wound up enough as it is.

Todd's release comes in a sudden burst. He scrapes his nails up one side of his ribs, and there's a jerk, a shout just shy of a _scream_ as Todd arches and goes tight. He enjoys it for just long enough that Todd starts to come down again, loosening up and leaning back into him, before he shoves the boy forward. Todd yelps, barely catching himself, and he wraps his hands around those hips and _takes_. It doesn't take him long. Todd jerks a little bit when he comes, squirming but ultimately holding still.

He holds Todd to him until he's fully satisfied, and only then lets himself slip free, sliding a hand up Todd's back and across the red marks he's left behind. "Not bad," he grants, as Todd twitches beneath him, still breathing hard. "I can see why your master likes you, Todd."

A shiver as he traces some of the lines his nails left, before Todd manages, "It was an honor to serve you, Admiral." An utter lie, of course, but it's a polite, obedient lie. That isn't the sort he'd punish for. However…

"Was?" he repeats, slipping his hand up to curl once again in Todd's hair, and tug him upright. "You're mine for the _night_ , remember, Commander? I'm a long way from done with you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Alright, shorter aftermath piece, here we go. Enjoy!

Tim’s in his office when the call comes through, working through the eternal pile of reports that need reviewing and doing his absolute best not to think about the fact that he left Jason alone with one of the most powerful men in the Empire. A man who he unquestionably needs the support of if he plans to have true power someday (and he fully believes that in that eventual ‘someday,’ Wayne will have risen even further), and who knows all too much about Tim’s deepest secrets.

Grayson’s fault.

He answers the com without checking who it’s from, and is then thankful that no one is around to watch him startle when the somewhat familiar voice of one of his middling-rank security personnel is the one to speak instead of one of his officers, or Jason, or even the admiral himself.

_“Captain, this is Kon-El. Commander Todd just came back through on one of the transporters.”_

“Send him to me,” Tim orders, carefully not allowing the twisting of his stomach to show in the tone of his voice. Jason’s been on Admiral Wayne’s ship for _hours_ ; too long for this to have been simple. Almost long enough to make him start to really worry, even though he’s pretty sure that Wayne wouldn’t seriously hurt Jason, not when there’s no tactical reason for it. (Proving power can be done in more ways than just pain, and the admiral isn’t that _blunt_.)

_“I’m… not sure that’s a good idea, Captain.”_

He sits back a little, raising his gaze away from the pad he has cradled in his hand to stare out across his office. "Why?" he demands.

_"He doesn't look great, sir,"_ the security officer says, and now Tim realizes that his voice is somewhat hushed. _"He seems pretty out of it; it's just me and a tech in the transporter room, Captain, but if he heads to your office…”_

It'll undermine Jason's position to be seen as weak, and that's not something that they can afford. He doesn't need to be told that. Even if his deal with Admiral Wayne was public (which it will _not_ be; no one gets to know Jason is for sale), it can't be known that anyone can get to them. No one can know that Jason can be hurt, or worn down. No one can know that he'll allow that, and he's definitely not going to parade it in front of his crew. Jason is his first officer, the shorthand version of his own power, and known as _his_. He'll look weak by extension.

Loyal little security officer he has, apparently. Wonder why that is.

“Escort him to my quarters; he has access. Stay there until I arrive.” He turns the pad off, sets it down, and then adds, “If you can get him there with an absolute minimum of witnesses, you’ll have my appreciation, Officer.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

He’s not imagining the greed that tints that particular tone, but that’s not at all surprising. A captain’s appreciation usually leads to fast promotions or extra privileges. People fight hard to be noticed by their superior officers; his own rank was built on favors and ‘appreciation,’ just like Admiral Wayne’s support is. It’s the way of the world.

He locks down his personal station before he leaves, and then the door behind him as he steps out onto the bridge. A shout of, “Captain on the bridge!” rings out, and he enjoys the stiffened spines for a moment before flicking his hand in dismissal as he crosses the room.

His seat is occupied by the current senior officer on the bridge, Cassie Sandsmark, who starts to rise as he approaches. He offers a thin smile, and a careless command of, “Keep my bird in the air, Lieutenant,” as he passes by.

“Yes, Captain,” comes her smooth reply. Head dipped in deference, but a long way from the boot-licking eagerness of a good amount of his crew. It makes her useful, but dangerous. He’ll have to see about getting her a ship of her own at some point, so she’s not tempted to try and take his. Not now, but at some point.

He leaves the room, hating the brief minute he’s in the turbolift (too many opportunities for an ambush in a small, enclosed space) before he can step out and make his way to his rooms. Some of his crew pass him, on their way to other places, but he keeps his greetings to small, acknowledging nods and his pace carefully relaxed. No need to give anyone the impression that he’s hurried, or unnerved, and he’s had a lifetime of practice at hiding things like that.

His rooms are empty when he gets there, so he takes a seat on his couch, facing the door, and settles in to wait. He’s not counting the seconds out of nervousness, but it’s seven minutes and forty-nine seconds before his door opens with a bright chime of sound.

He stays still, watching as Jason steps inside, followed by the smaller form of Kon-El. (Kryptonian, his mind informs him, as he recalls the personnel file. Tougher than a normal human, stronger; their Emperor is a Kryptonian.)

Jason looks, more than anything, _tired_. Exhausted; head dipping, shoulders slightly curled, nearly dragging his feet along the floor, a hand staying braced against the door’s frame as long as possible before it has to fall away. His eyes are dull, gaze dragging along the short carpet and finally up to him, as the door shuts. Seeing him prompts a spark in Jason’s eyes, and he gets to his feet as his partner moves towards him, lifting a hand to tunnel through Jason’s hair as he gets close enough. A single tug pulls Jason to his knees, letting Tim hold him against his hip, looking past him to Kon-El as Jason presses against his leg.

“Who saw him?” he asks, keeping his tone calm. For now.

“Only the tech that was there when he came in,” Kon-El answers, hands now clasped behind his back and feet steadily planted. "We took Jefferies tubes around the more populated areas; skipped the turbolifts. No witnesses."

Tim watches for a moment, to make sure that the Kryptonian isn't just lying to him to gain his approval, before he gives a minute nod of his head. "Good. I'll remember this, Officer; you can go."

"Yes, sir."

The security officer turns to leave, and a thought occurs to Tim, sharp and sudden like all his most dangerous ideas. "Wait," he calls, just loud enough to make the blue eyes of Kon-El turn back to him. "Kill the tech; make it clean." Kon-El hesitates, and he’s not naive enough to think that it's out of a hesitance to kill a crew member. No, it's because that makes this interestingly loyal officer the only loose end, and he’s apparently smart enough to realize it. He holds Kon-El's gaze, and then gives one of his sharpest smiles. "If you don't open your mouth, I won't need to close it."

There's a moment of pause, and then Kon-El's head dips. "Understood, Captain."

He doesn't stop Kon-El again, and he doesn't move until the door has shut and locked, leaving him alone with Jason. Then he slowly cards his fingers through Jason's hair, looking down and slowly coaxing those blue-green eyes up to meet his gaze. Jason shifts, head lifting obediently, and he feels a hand touch the back of his thigh and then grip it, almost too tight to be comfortable. He doesn't react to the grip but takes the time to study Jason's expression instead, and to check all visible skin for marks. There's nothing, but Jason still looks _exhausted._ Shaken. Won't hold his gaze.

He's still considering what to say, what to _ask_ , when Jason speaks instead, towards the floor. "You have Admiral Wayne's support." His voice is rough, slightly hoarse as though he's been screaming. Jason takes in a hard breath, breathes it out again, as he wonders what the admiral _did_. "He's sending you the blueprints to a couple ships currently being built; as long as you give what he wants until they're finished, you'll get one."

"Excellent job, Jason," he says, automatically, but knows it's the wrong thing even before Jason flinches a little bit. "Come sit down," he murmurs, pulling gently at Jason's hair as he steps back.

It takes a long moment for Jason to let go of his leg, and then follow the pressure of his guidance to get up and follow him towards the door that separates his room from the rest of his quarters. He guides Jason to sit on the corner of the bed, and steps forward to slide his hands through Jason's hair and cradle his head. He presses a kiss to Jason's forehead, and then steals a brief one from his actual lips, before he steps forward enough to be between Jason's thighs.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks, and Jason gives a small shake of his head.

"Nothing I didn't like," is the dull answer. "It wasn't— I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Let me see," he demands, instead of pointing out that no, Jason is _not fine_. Whether it was with pain or not, Admiral Wayne _hurt_ him.

Jason moves haltingly, gaze still lowered to the floor as he strips the uniform shirt off, baring his torso and arms, and letting Tim see exactly what kind of stain Wayne's left on his first officer. Precise, darkening bruises along his throat and shoulders; teeth. Reddened scratches concentrated along his back and sides, but marring most of his torso. Less precise bruises around his arms; not hand shaped, but it's more than obvious that Jason was held down by them. It's... not so different than he might leave Jason himself, after a couple good rounds. He doesn't hold Jason down (he prefers restraints) but otherwise…

He traces the darkening bruises along one shoulder, keeping his touch gentle enough not to cause even the slightest bit of pain. This isn't a game.

Then Jason's hand is wrapping around his other wrist, clinging for a moment before loosening to something more normal. He watches Jason's back rise in a deep breath, before there comes a quiet, "I won't ask you for never again, I know you can't do that. But just… Never without a good reason; promise me that."

He stares down, carefully tamps down the way his mouth opens, ready to promise that. Except that he's spent a lifetime avoiding the restrictions that come along with promises and oaths, and all he manages to do is lift the hand on Jason's shoulder and cup the back of his neck instead, leaning down to hide his expression and his uncertainty in Jason's hair, lips against his temple so he doesn't say anything stupid. Doesn't promise something he can't deliver, or fall too far the other direction and break the trust between them by refusing as vehemently as his head says to. Jason shudders, fingers squeezing his wrist for a moment.

"It's alright," Jason whispers, head turning towards his, nose brushing his neck. "You don't have to— I'm sorry. I understand."

He can't pull away, but he does manage to say, "Will you still stay with me tonight?"

And the sound Jason makes is something half-broken, on the edge of a laugh. Lips press to his neck, his shoulder, and there's a hoarse whisper of, "Always."

(Jason has always made promises so easily. Loyalty, obedience, support… Surrender. He almost wishes that Jason were harder, as hard and as selfish as he is, because he can't understand how Jason can give so much, and so readily, and _gladly._ Or how he can just take and _take_ and Jason never stops him.)

He clings for a moment, and then forces himself to swallow hard enough that he can order, "Undress me, Jason." His voice isn't as even as he'd like, but Jason doesn't react to it.

The hand leaves his wrist, fingers easily pulling down the zipper and pushing his half-shirt off of his shoulders. He discards it to the ground as those hands fall to his pants, sliding one hand through black hair and one hand over Jason's shoulder as gentle, clever lips press a kiss just below the hollow of his throat. His eyes close, and he focuses on keeping himself contained as Jason pulls the rest of his clothes off, finally leaving him nude. When he is he tilts Jason's chin up, takes a brief, soft kiss that he _has_ to have, even though Jason doesn't fully respond to it.

He murmurs, "You can keep on as much as you want," before he steps away and climbs onto the bed, sliding in beneath the covers on his side and trying not to watch too obtrusively. Either he succeeds or Jason just isn't currently perceptive enough to notice, but he gets a good view of the rest of Jason's marks as the slacks, underwear, and shoes are eased off and left on the ground.

Still, nothing all that bad. Nothing that would hurt Jason beyond what he'd thoroughly enjoy, which… brings up other possibilities he doesn't like the idea of. If not _pain_ , then…

Jason crawls in beside him, pressing up against his back and looping a heavy arm around his chest. Holding him tighter than he normally does, nose buried against the top of his head and no space left between them. He reaches just far enough to turn off the light, before he turns beneath Jason's arm and presses them close together, pushing his head in beneath Jason's chin. He's always liked how Jason can surround him; bigger and taller and stronger than he is, and fully capable of lifting or carrying him however desired.

Jason falls asleep far easier than he does, the tension in him easing underneath the tide of sleep and loosening the grip of his arm and curl of one leg. For Tim, it's harder. He doesn't have exhaustion to help him sleep, and he can't get his mind past the map of marks across Jason's skin. Marks that aren't _his_ , and no one else should have the right to mark his first officer unless he grants permission. Which he did, he supposes. _He's_ the one that sold Jason to Admiral Wayne, even knowing that a man capable of creating and owning someone like Captain Grayson had to be dangerous beyond belief. Whatever was done to Jason, however he was hurt, _Tim_ is the one that opened him to it.

His fault.

He traces his fingers down the length of one set of scratches, from Jason's collarbone down to the opposite pectoral. Jason's chest rises beneath his touch in an easy breath, and he can feel his jaw clench down for a second. Just a second, before he breathes slowly out and lifts his head up to press a kiss to Jason's jaw. Tomorrow, he's going to take a regenerator to Jason's skin and wipe out every last trace that Wayne was ever there. Then, he's going to let Jason choose exactly what they do with their day. Damn the ship, damn the mission, damn the reports due; Jason needs him, and he needs _this_ to feel like he can fix this. He has to be able to fix this. (And yet, there's a cold part of his heart that knows he would do this again, in a heartbeat, if it got him what he needed.)

Jason stirs slightly beneath his fingers, and Tim lets his hand rest against his chest, lets it cover more of the marks there as if he could just scrub them away.

"Never again," he says, belatedly. Barely above a whisper. "I promise."


End file.
